Not Done with You
by Griselda Banks
Summary: Oneshot. Spoilers through BP. Confused and lonely after waking up in the twenty-first century, Steve can't help feeling somewhat lost and directionless. On a whim, he decides to visit an old veteran. Will Louie Zamperini have any answers for him? No pairings.


**Author's Note: I've toyed with writing a fic like this for a long time, and I'd like to thank the friends I've talked to about this who gave me the courage to take the plunge. The first seed of this story, I suppose, came from reading **_**Unbroken**_** by Laura Hillenbrand, which tells the incredible life story of Louis Zamperini, a bombardier in WWII who was taken as a POW by the Japanese. The whole time I was reading that book, I kept thinking, "What would Steve have been doing at this point?" (well, until 1945, I guess). And then, seeing pictures of Zamperini as an old man, it occurred to me that he and Steve had **_**another**_** overlap in their lives, for a few years between when Steve came out of the ice and when Zamperini passed away in 2014. So...what would happen if the two of them met?**

**For a couple years since first having that idle thought, I figured I didn't have much of a story to tell. I assumed I didn't know enough, or that there wasn't enough to turn this into a real fic, or that no one would be interested in reading this in the first place. So I just daydreamed. But the idea wouldn't leave me alone. And when I finally sat down to start writing, just to see where it would go...it turned out I had a **_**lot**_** to say. It took some turns I wasn't expecting, and I ended up writing two more scenes than I'd initially planned on...but I think this is what it needed to be.**

**Hopefully, reading this will give you some new things to think about. If you haven't already, I highly recommend **_**Unbroken,**_** either the book or the two movies based on it. If you have any questions or comments about anything in this fic, just drop me a line! I'm always happy to talk :)**

* * *

_There's a light you don't notice  
Until you're standing in the dark  
And there's a strength that's growing  
Inside your shattered heart_

_God's not done with you  
Even with your broken heart and your wounds and your scars  
God's not done with you  
Even when you're lost and it's hard and you've fallen apart_

_..._

_God's not done writing your story_

_\- "God's Not Done with You" by Tauren Wells_

* * *

_~*~*~J.J.~*~*~_

* * *

_When he thought of his history, what resonated with him now was not all that he had suffered but the divine love that he believed had intervened to save him. He was not the worthless, broken, forsaken man that the Bird had striven to make of him. In a single, silent moment, his rage, his fear, his humiliation and helplessness, had fallen away. That morning, he believed, he was a new creation._

_Softly, he wept._

Steve sighed and closed the book, staring blankly at the cover's depiction of a plane flying through golden clouds. He'd read the book cover-to-cover twice now, some portions even more times than that. Even though a few descriptions had made visions of his own past swim before his eyes, he hadn't been able to stop reading. And he didn't regret picking up this book after an off-hand recommendation from a woman in the bookstore. Despite nightmares, despite the way parts of it made his gut twist or tears spring to his eyes...he was glad he'd read it.

A tone sounded, and Steve glanced up to see that the 'fasten seatbelts' sign had turned on again. Looking out the little window next to him, Steve saw the Los Angeles airport coming into view below, surrounded by the miniscule buildings of the city and ribbons of highway studded with tiny cars sparkling in the sunlight.

He had trouble explaining, even to himself, why he was doing this. Why travel all the way across the country and disturb an old man, just because of a book that described a part of the war he'd never experienced? He'd never been to Japan, or even Hawaii. He wasn't a pilot (crashing the Valkyrie into an iceberg didn't count). He hadn't suffered the things this man had, and his experience after the war was vastly different.

So why did he feel so compelled to meet Louie Zamperini?

Louie's home was unremarkable, like many other middle-class houses on the same street of the Los Angeles suburb. Steve wasn't sure what he'd expected, but somehow it was surprising that such an amazing man would live in such an ordinary house.

He felt the same way when he was shown into the living room and found the man himself sitting in an easy chair by a large window overlooking the backyard. The man Steve saw was stooped, his face covered with age spots and thousands of wrinkles, his hair white and wispy, a blanket draped over his knees even though the late May sunshine streamed through the window.

This was the man who had drifted for 47 days in the Pacific Ocean, been captured by the Japanese, and survived two years in a POW camp. This man had lived through cruelty worthy of Hydra, come back home, and suffered for years afterward in the grip of alcoholism and the blistering fires of bitterness and revenge.

But when Steve looked at this little old man, only one word came to mind to describe him: joyful.

The woman who had greeted Steve at the door—Louie's daughter? granddaughter?—called out, "Here he is—Steve Rogers!"

For a moment, Steve felt a little ridiculous, like he was being presented at the king's court or something. But as soon as Louie turned his gaze from the window, the old man's face brightened. "Steve!" he cried, opening his arms in welcome as though they were old friends. "There you are! I've been waiting all afternoon!"

Steve hurriedly crossed the room when he saw Louie grasping the arms of his chair in preparation of levering himself to his feet. "Please, sir, don't get up—it's an honor to meet you." He held out his hand.

Despite how thin and papery his skin felt, Louie's grip was still firm. He shook Steve's hand heartily, grinning up at him, then urged him into the chair across from him.

"Captain Steve Rogers," Louie said with a laugh and a shake of his head, as if he couldn't quite believe it. "We used to read your comics in the barracks all the time! Tell me..." He leaned forward with an eager twinkle in his eye. "Did you really punch Adolf Hitler in the face?"

Steve laughed. "They exaggerated quite a bit—I've never even _seen_ Adolf Hitler!"

They chatted for a few minutes on light subjects, reminiscing about the way things had been in their childhoods. It was surprisingly easy to talk to Louie, Steve discovered. He'd been a little apprehensive about that. In terms of when they were born, Steve and Louie were nearly the same age—Louie was only a couple months older than Bucky. But Louie had lived a full life while Steve had been frozen. Louie had married, fathered children, made something of himself even after his days as a soldier were over. It was for exactly that reason Steve had been putting off going to see Peggy. How could they have anything in common when, physically speaking, Steve was so much younger?

Suddenly, Steve became aware that Louie was watching him thoughtfully, and he realized that he'd fallen silent for just a little too long. "I notice you brought the book," Louie said, pointing at Steve's copy of _Unbroken_ that he'd placed on the end table next to him. "You want me to sign it? That's usually what people ask."

"Oh—please. If you would." Steve handed over the book.

As Louie fished a pen out of his front pocket and turned to a blank page at the beginning of the book, he said casually, "So what brings the famous Captain America here, anyhow? It's a long way to go just for an autograph."

With a sigh, Steve leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. "To be honest, sir...I'm not sure myself. I guess I'm just...looking for answers. And...I don't know...somehow I think you can help me find them."

"Oh?" Louie's pen scritched away. "And what are the questions?"

Steve opened his mouth, and words came spilling out before he could check them. "Why am I alive? I've been asking myself that ever since I woke up after the ice. I wasn't expecting to survive. I wasn't..._planning_ on surviving. So why did I?" He hung his head, remembering all too well the sense of relief he'd felt at the thought that he could save the world and end his life at the same time. He wasn't exactly proud of that thought, but...he'd been so tired of it all. In a lot of ways, it would have been easier if that had been the end of everything.

"Sounds to me like Someone else wanted you to live."

It took Steve a moment to understand what Louie meant. Slowly, he straightened up again. "You mean...like a miracle?"

Louie arched an eyebrow. "You have a better way of explaining it?"

Steve bit his lip. It seemed blatantly disrespectful to talk about how his enhanced body had allowed him to withstand seventy years of being frozen solid and leaving it at that. Not when the man before him had lived through dozens of experiences that should have killed him—without any enhancements.

"Well, let me ask you this, Steve: Are you a praying man?"

"I think every soldier prays from time to time," Steve said softly. But he knew what Louie was really asking. "My mother took me to church when I was a kid, but...she died when I was eighteen, and then...what with the war and everything...there never seemed to be enough time for any of that."

Louie nodded, then gently prodded, "And now?"

Steve shifted uncomfortably. "Look...I know you're a god-fearing man, and I mean no disrespect to your beliefs, but...God hasn't exactly done me any favors. It's...a little hard to feel any kind of gratitude in my position."

Louie's eyebrows rose a little, but at least he didn't look offended. "He saved your life, didn't He?"

"For what?" Steve blurted out. The words came out in painful bursts from some dark corner of his heart where he'd been hiding them ever since he woke to find himself in the twenty-first century a few months ago. "What did he save me for? So I could live on when everyone I've ever known and loved is dead? He took everything away from me—everything! Why couldn't he have just let me die? Like I was _supposed_ to!"

Steve realized he was raising his voice, and quickly snapped his mouth shut. He probably sounded like a petulant child to someone like Louie. Maybe that's what he was.

But Louie didn't seem bothered by what he'd said. "A lot of times, the Lord's plans don't line up with what we think ought to happen. That's why it's a good thing He doesn't leave it up to us."

Steve took a few deep breaths, trying to grasp his self-control again. When he felt he could trust himself to speak calmly again, he said carefully, "I know...you found meaning...in what you went through. And I'm glad that you...made peace with God...with your enemies...that you could recover so well..."

"Oh, I didn't _recover_," Louie said with a beatific smile. "I came out a better man than I ever was to start with. I wouldn't trade any of those experiences for the world."

Steve stared at him. Really? He wouldn't trade years of malnutrition, humiliation, and outright torture? He wouldn't trade being punched in the face by every prisoner in camp, one after another? He wouldn't trade drifting on the ocean, starved and dehydrated, fighting off sharks and hoping vainly for rain?

Louie's grin widened at Steve's incredulity. "You know why I wouldn't trade it? Because that's how I found my way to Him. He was calling to me all that time; I was just too thick-skulled to hear Him." Eyes that had seen so much looked straight into Steve's. Once again, Steve saw nothing but joy in them. "He's calling to you too, Steve."

A chill ran down Steve's spine at these words, though he wasn't sure why. He felt like every hair on his body was standing on end, like a cold breeze had just swept through the room. But the air was still.

Was that supposed to be God calling to him? Or was he just imagining things? One would think that someone as powerful as God could make it a bit less ambiguous...

"You want to know why you're still alive?" Louie said. "It's because God still has something for you to do. He's not finished with you yet."

"I'm not sure how I feel about that," Steve mumbled. A bone-deep exhaustion settled on his shoulders as he thought of all the things he'd already done—good things, things that were supposed to save the world. Hadn't he done enough yet? How much more would God demand of him? He wasn't sure how much more of this life he could take.

Louie chuckled. "Take it from me, Steve—don't try to run from God. No matter how fast you run, He'll always be waiting to catch you in the end."

Steve wasn't sure why, but the image that popped into his head at those words wasn't someone lying in ambush, waiting to leap out at their unsuspecting prey. No, what Steve thought of was a father holding out his hands, smiling as he waited for his child to toddle into his arms. Somehow, the way that Louie's voice softened as he spoke made that image crystal clear.

"Yes," Louie said, handing back Steve's copy of _Unbroken._ "I think God's got big plans for you."

Steve huffed in frustration. "If that's the case, why doesn't he just come out and _tell_ me what those plans are? It seems to me that he hasn't made up his mind yet."

Louie cocked his head to one side. "Have you _asked_ Him?"

Steve opened his mouth, then closed it again. "Well...no," he finally admitted.

Louie shrugged. "Well, I don't know how you expect to get any answers if you're not even asking. Or listening."

Duly chastened, Steve asked, "How do I do that?"

Louie beamed. "Well, I'm glad you asked, because I happen to have the perfect instruction manual right here." He reached over to a table beside him and grabbed a little black book, handing it over to Steve. When Steve looked down and saw _Holy Bible_ written on it in gold letters, he realized he should have seen that one coming. "Oh, but I couldn't take your—"

Louie waved his hand dismissively. "I've got five more on the shelf over there. Take it, Steve. On one condition."

"What's that?"

Louie grinned, his eyes sparkling like sapphires in the sunlight. "Read it."

Steve couldn't help smiling back. "Yes, sir."

* * *

The sky was dark by the time Steve made it to his hotel room. He dropped his small overnight bag at the foot of the bed, not bothering to turn on the lights. He pushed the curtains back and let in the illumination of the city lights, looking out at the rather impressive view. Distant headlights swept back and forth between the glitter and gleam of a pleasant night in Los Angeles. He could just imagine the bustle on those streets as people headed home from a long day of work, or ventured out into the dazzling array of amusements the nightlife afforded.

Standing in the dark, alone and directionless in a world that had grown so unfamiliar, Steve had never felt so separated from the rest of humanity.

Heaving a sigh, Steve sank onto the bed and gazed unseeing out at the night. Here he was, on the other side of the country. He'd achieved his goal, spoken to Louie Zamperini...for what? Nothing had changed. He was still so lonely he wanted to scream. He still had no idea what to do with his life.

He should have known that not even the hero he'd read about would be able to help him.

With nothing better to do, Steve reached into his bag and pulled out his copy of _Unbroken._ His fingers brushed against another book, so he went ahead and pulled out the Bible Louie had given him too.

He flipped to the title page of _Unbroken,_ where Louie's signature curled under the title. In the white space of the page, Louie had written, _A moment of pain is worth a lifetime of glory._

His hand settled on the well-worn cover of Louie's Bible. It looked as though it had been thumbed through countless times. Well...he _had_ said he would read it...

"Okay, God," he muttered to the empty room. "You gonna give me some answers now?"

There was a narrow ribbon attached to the Bible to use as a bookmark, so Steve opened to the page it was tucked into. It seemed as good a place as any to start. His eyes were immediately drawn to a passage that Louie had underlined in bold, dark strokes of a pen. _"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you a hope and a future."_

All the breath rushed out of Steve's lungs at once. For a long time, the only thing he could do was stare at the page. Had Louie underlined that passage and put the bookmark there so that Steve would find it? No, he hadn't even opened the book before handing it over. And before they spoke, he wouldn't have known how applicable that verse would be to the confusion swirling in his head. What a coincidence...or...

_I know the plans I have for you, Steve. _I_ know. _You_ don't need to know yet._

It wasn't an audible voice. The heavens didn't break open; there were no choirs of angels, no beam of light shining through the clouds. But it was like a voiceless whisper had spoken right into his heart.

He sucked in a huge gulp of air. "Is that...you?" he whispered, heart pounding. "Are you there?"

Again, there was no voice, no physical sensation. Just words springing to the front of his mind, as if inserted into the stream of his thoughts. _I've been here all along._

For some reason, Steve suddenly thought of his childhood—growing up in New York, getting beaten to a pulp with painful regularity. His mother used to groan that he made his guardian angel work overtime.

There were dozens—maybe even _hundreds—_of times he probably should have died. In the back alleys of New York City. On the battlefields of Europe. In a plane crashing into the ice. Even lying on a sickbed, running a fever for days on end and coughing until he could barely breathe.

_I was there._

The serum running through his veins, reshaping him into something strong enough to withstand the trials ahead. The nose of the plane crumpling in just such a way that he didn't die on impact. A friend standing over him to protect him—covering him from a rooftop, picking up his shield to defend him, standing over him in an alleyway with fists raised and lip bloody, ready to face down the whole world...

Steve suddenly realized that tears were streaming down his cheeks. "You didn't take everything away. You _gave_ me everything..."

As if of their own accord, Steve's eyes dropped back to the open book in his hands. _Plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you a hope and a future._

Steve let out a bone-deep sigh and wiped away some of the tears. He looked out at the night sky and smiled. "Okay, then," he said quietly. "I've still got a lot of questions. But I'm listening."

He switched on the lamp and started to read.

* * *

For a moment upon waking, Steve couldn't figure out where he was. There was only a thin layer of padding between his back and the ground, so that ruled out any place with a bed. But it also wasn't the cold, hard, rumbling floor of the Quinjet, where he'd been getting most of his sleep lately.

But then he breathed in deeply and a dozen scents assaulted him at once, and he knew exactly where he was. Dry earth, grass, sheep, spices he couldn't identify...and there, soaked into the blankets, the smell of skin and hair and sweat that he could only call _Bucky._

Steve reached out without opening his eyes, but his hand met nothing except empty blankets. Cracking an eye open, he saw that he was alone in the hut. But Bucky must have only just left; his blanket was still warm.

After lying in bed for a few more minutes, smiling contentedly to himself, Steve sat up and stretched. His muscles ached with the exertion of the past few days, but it was a good ache. The ache of a job well done, of knowing that he had pushed himself hard—and it had _mattered._

"Thank You," he murmured in quiet prayer. "Thank You for keeping me safe, and bringing me home." He glanced at the flap of cloth hanging in the doorway and smiled again. He might still be unused to the heat of Wakanda, he might still stumble over the few words of Xhosa he'd learned...but this _was_ home now. Because Bucky was his home.

The smell of smoke wafted inside as Steve went about his morning routine. He thought he could also smell the lamb stew from the night before. Sam would have insisted on fixing "_real_ breakfast food," but since he'd opted to stay in the hospital overnight with Natasha, he wasn't here to complain. Steve hastily muttered a prayer for Natasha's healing as well, but he wasn't too worried. Nat had lost a lot of blood in their last fight, but the doctors had said she would make a full recovery in a day or two.

Steve reached into his bag for his Bible, but it wasn't in its usual waterproof pouch. He rummaged around for a few minutes, but couldn't find it anywhere. Maybe he'd left it on the Quinjet? But he usually wasn't so careless with it; it had belonged to Louie Zamperini...

Frowning thoughtfully, Steve finally gave up. He'd just have to go looking for it after breakfast.

But when he pushed aside the cloth at the entrance and stepped through the doorway, he realized his search was already at an end. Bucky sat on a log by the campfire, intently reading a little black book that Steve instantly recognized. He didn't even seem to notice Steve until he sat down on the log next to him.

Bucky slowly straightened, closing the Bible. Steve glanced down swiftly and saw that it had been open to Luke 15. The lost sheep. The prodigal son.

"Sorry," Bucky said, handing it over. "You were asleep, so I couldn't ask..."

"No, no." Steve gently pushed the book back into his hand. "You're welcome to it."

Bucky settled the Bible in his lap, running his thumb up and down its worn spine. "I read that book you gave me," he said. There was something odd in his voice that Steve couldn't quite pinpoint.

"Yeah?" Steve's heart skipped a beat, but he tried to keep his tone and expression neutral. He'd left _Devil at My Heels,_ Louie Zamperini's memoir, for Bucky to read the last time he was here. It had felt right—since Bucky had missed his chance to meet Louie, at least he could hear his story in Louie's own words.

There had been precious little time to talk about that visit and the things that had changed that day. For years afterward, Steve had still been wrestling with doubts and questions of his own—days that he almost thought he could hear a divine voice whispering in his ear, and days when it all seemed like wishful thinking. Even now, there were days when he found the most he could do was mumble Mark 9:24 over and over again: "I believe; help my unbelief!"

Even after he'd discovered that Bucky was still alive, he hadn't been able to talk to him about faith. First, there had been the two years Bucky had run away from him, and they hadn't even _seen_ each other. Then when he'd found Bucky again, there had been so many demands on his attention—stopping Zemo, fighting Tony, making sure Bucky didn't get captured or killed. And so soon after that, Bucky had decided to go back into cryo. More time had passed in which they were separated...and then after Bucky got out again and Shuri had freed him from Hydra's control, all they'd wanted to do was enjoy their time together. Renew their bond. Finally, _finally_ relax in the knowledge that they were both safe and sound.

Steve _could_ have broached the subject. He knew Bucky had to have noticed some changes in him—reading his Bible every day, muttering prayers under his breath, even quoting a verse or two when it was relevant. He could have gone a step further and told Bucky about this change in his life, any number of times they'd gone for a walk by the river, or sat up late watching the fire die, or lain awake looking up at the stars.

The truth was...Steve was a coward. He was afraid to bring it up, afraid to start talking about God, because...what must Bucky think about God? To him, God probably seemed at best nonexistent, and at worst a cruel tyrant. Thinking of all the terrible things God had let happen to Bucky had been one of the hardest things for Steve to wrap his mind around. It _still_ tripped him up sometimes when he thought about it too hard. How could a loving God allow Bucky to be tortured and manipulated for _seventy years?_ How could any good come from that?

And if Steve struggled so much with that thought, he could only imagine what a stumbling block it would be for Bucky, who had actually lived through it all.

"It's...incredible," Bucky said slowly, staring out across the grass blowing in the cool morning breeze to the sun rising over the hill. "The stuff Zamperini went through. And how...at the end of it all...he _forgave_ them. He forgave everyone who'd hurt him. That's..." He shook his head. "A lot to think about."

Steve looked at Bucky's thoughtful expression and wondered what that meant. Was he thinking about forgiving _his_ captors? Or was he thinking that Louie Zamperini was crazy? Did he think that Louie's story had any bearing on his own life...or was it just that—a story? Or maybe he was just swimming in a sea of confusion, not sure what to believe. Steve needed to be patient with him. He remembered what a long and difficult journey it had been for _him._

Steve swallowed nervously and said, "So...did you...come to any conclusions, then?"

Bucky blinked and straightened up, looking up at Steve as if he'd forgotten he was there. "Oh. Yeah. I want in."

He said it so casually that it took a few seconds for the words to sink in. "Wait...what?"

Bucky smiled sheepishly, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. "Sorry...guess you can't read my mind, huh? It's just...well...if He could save Zamperini...if He could make something so good out of something so..._damaged..._I want Him to do that with me too."

All of Steve's breath left him in a rush. Was this really happening? The thing he'd been praying for, but secretly doubting would ever come to pass...had already happened. "Seriously?" he breathed. "You...You mean it?"

Bucky nodded. "It's like the story I was just reading," he said, tapping the Bible in his lap with one finger. "The...parable? You know, about the prodigal son? I always used to think those stories were like...fables. Like the mouse chewing through the lion's ropes or whatever. Stories to teach children how to be good little boys and girls. But...it's about _us,_ isn't it?"

He looked off towards the horizon again, the sunlight turning his dark hair to spun gold. "_I'm_ the prodigal son. Going off on my own my whole life, thinking I'm doing all right... Then the pigs drag me down into the mud, till all I can do to survive is eat their food and wallow in the mud with them. But then, when I finally go crawling home...filthy, smelly, disgusting...my Father comes running to greet me. How could I refuse that?"

Bucky looked over at Steve, then took the corner of the sash tied around his waist and dabbed at Steve's eyes with it. "C'mon, Stevie," he gently chided. "Stop crying or I'll think you aren't happy."

Laughing and crying and half-heartedly attempting to mop up his tears, Steve pulled Bucky into a crushing hug that would hopefully banish any doubt of _that._

After the embrace had gone unbroken for several minutes, Bucky sniffled and said, "Well? You gonna say anything?"

Steve pulled back just far enough to see Bucky's face, streaked with tears but stretched in a wide grin—the very mirror of Steve's own. "There's only one thing _to_ say: Praise God!"

They burst into laughter—giddy, overjoyed, breathless laughter. Steve's heart was soaring high enough to brush the clouds... Suddenly he remembered something he'd read. "Buck...all the angels in heaven are rejoicing right now."

Their euphoria calmed into an awed silence as they sat contemplating that. Steve looked at Bucky, whose eyes were bright and full of hope despite the tears, and he remembered something Louie had written in his memoir. Not only had he forgiven the prison guards who had treated him so cruelly...he'd said he was _grateful_ for them, because God had used them to save Louie. In that moment, Steve thought he understood. Or rather, he caught just the briefest glimpse of an answer. A plan, a story, a tapestry—infinitely complex, weaving together millions of seemingly random events into a beautiful masterpiece.

Shaking his head in amazement, Steve couldn't keep back a chuckle. "How'd you accept all this so quickly? It took me _years_ to get to this point."

Bucky shrugged. "I already knew I was a sinner. And...well...it wasn't too hard to believe in a savior, considering."

"Considering what?"

With a small smile, Bucky said, "Considering you gave me such a good example."

Steve frowned in confusion. "You mean Zamperini?"

Bucky snorted. "No, goofus, I mean _you!_" He shook his head disbelievingly. "Don't you realize that everything you've done for me is like a tiny picture of what Jesus did for me already?"

Steve blinked.

"You saved me from myself," Bucky said in a soft, earnest voice. "You rescued me from my enemies, and no matter how many awful things I'd done...you still loved me enough to come find me. You never gave up on me. You were ready to _die_ for me. You were showing me God's love before I even realized that's what you were doing. So...thank you, Steve. For helping to convince me it was possible."

Steve couldn't speak. He felt so small—not in the sense of being humiliated, but rather...humbled. Even if he'd done some of those things without once considering God was part of the equation, He had still decided to use Steve in the story of Bucky's life.

"Um...is there something I...need to do?" Bucky asked hesitantly, breaking Steve's train of thought. "I mean...there's no churches or priests or pastors in Wakanda. There's not even a tent like Zamperini went to."

Steve couldn't stop smiling. "You don't have to _do_ anything. Just ask God to change your heart...and He will. It's all about what _He's_ doing, after all."

"Okay." Bucky set the Bible aside. "Uh...sorry, I'm kind of rusty. Do I...kneel? And I've only got one hand, so I can't...you know..."

Steve laughed and clasped Bucky's hand in his. "It _doesn't matter,_ Buck. Just talk to Him. He's waiting to hear from you."

"But He already knows what I'm thinking."

"Sure. But even though I already know you love me, I still like hearing you say it. I think it's the same for Him."

"Oh...okay." Bucky closed his eyes and said haltingly, "God...um...Our Father who art in heaven? It's...It's me. I mean, I guess you know that already." He blew out a nervous breath. "Sorry, I'm not very good at this."

Steve smiled and closed his eyes, squeezing Bucky's hand encouragingly.

"I know I've done a lot of bad things," Bucky mumbled. "Not just the stuff Hydra made me do, either. I've gotten angry when I shouldn't...I've lied...hurt people...been selfish... But You said that if anyone believes in You, they won't be condemned, but will have eternal life. Could I...could that be me? Please? I know I don't deserve it, but...that's why You sent Your son down, right? To save people like me who don't deserve it? So...could I be one of the people you save? I...want to follow you. If you'll have me."

As Bucky fell silent, a cool morning breeze brushed past them, and the hairs on the back of Steve's neck stood up in the way he was still hesitant to call the Holy Spirit—just in case it wasn't. Out of nowhere, he thought of a verse from one of the gospels. _"If you are willing, Lord, you can make me clean." "I am willing. Be clean."_

Bucky pulled his hand away, and when Steve opened his eyes, he saw that Bucky was mopping up the last of his tears. "Well?" he sniffled. "What now?"

Steve grinned so wide his cheeks hurt. "We tell Sam. And Nat. And Wanda, and...everyone!"

* * *

_~*~*~S.D.G.~*~*~_

* * *

_There will be nights when you hear whispers  
Of the life you once knew  
__Don't let it linger  
'Cause there's a grace that falls upon you  
Don't you forget_

_In the places you're weak  
He is very strong  
Don't ever believe you don't deserve love  
The same God that protects you when you're lost and alone  
Is the very same God that is calling you home_

_Wherever you are, whatever you did  
It's a page in your book, but it isn't the end  
Your Father will meet you with arms open wide  
This is where your heart belongs  
Come running like a prodigal_

_..._

_Your Father's not waiting, no, he's running too  
He's running straight to you_

_\- "Prodigal" by Sidewalk Prophets_


End file.
